


A Visitor From Porlock

by KoreArabin



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes: A Game of Shadows (2010)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Unspoken Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-26
Updated: 2013-03-04
Packaged: 2017-12-03 17:12:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,907
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/700692
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KoreArabin/pseuds/KoreArabin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/users/tiger_moran/pseuds/">tiger_moran</a>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

That their supper appointment is not proceeding as planned is to put it mildly. Moran has arrived early at the restaurant, full of enthusiasm for a prototype of a semi-automatic pistol, smuggled recently from the Continent and into the hands of the Professor. The Professor has, understandably, passed the somewhat intricate schematic diagrams of the operation of the new weapon to his chief of staff to peruse, analyse, and report back on.

Having studied the diagrams carefully and compared the structure of the new weapon to existing revolvers, Moran is actually rather excited about having something about which, for a change, he can enthuse and expand on to Moriarty, and has already started formulating a plan for production of a similar weapon in one of the Professor's German factories. He takes his place at their usual, private, table cheerfully, deciding that he will treat himself to a few amuse-bouches and a decanter of red wine whilst waiting for Moriarty. Generally speaking, Moran is not a big eater, having always been somewhat disinterested and even abstemious when it comes to food (although the same cannot be said for alcohol), but being in a good temper always whets his appetite.

However, after some thirty minutes or so of sitting waiting, the little balls of steak tartare eaten and the decanter three-quarters empty, his mood is beginning to turn. It is most unlike the Professor to be late; he is normally prompt to the point of fastidiousness, and Moran's initial good mood and excitement is waning and beginning to tip over into irritation and anti-climax.

Just as he reaches for the decanter again, Moriarty sweeps into the room, virtually throwing his hat and coat to the attendant and slamming down into his seat in a most out of character way. He looks sourly at Moran's hand on the decanter. "Drinking alone, Colonel? Could you not at least wait for me to arrive before swallowing the whole decanter, for God's sake?"

Moran feels another ripple of irritation trickling under his skin. "I've been sitting here over half an hour waiting for you. You're late."

"A decanter of vin rouge emptied in thirty minutes? I see. It would appear then that I am employing drunkards as well as turncoats and tittle-tattlers these days. My judgment must be slipping."

Moran lets the jibe pass, for now. "What d'ya mean, turncoats and tittle-tattlers? What's happened, Sir?"

Moriarty scowls, his hand curled into the table cloth, knuckles white with tension. "Are you familiar with the poetry of Coleridge, Moran?"

"Sir?"

"No, of course not. For a supposedly educated man, you are quite the _philistine_ , Colonel. I would have expected even a gun for hire, a twopenny _thug_ indeed, to have at least a passing acquaintance with the poet but, no matter."

Sebastian bridles again at the slur, but holds his temper. "I _am_ familiar with Coleridge's works, Sir. I was just unsure in what context you was referring to them."

"I have a man in my organisation who thinks himself quite the _comedian_. Who considers it not enough simply to pass on details of my work to Sherlock Holmes, of all people, but has to compound the insult by throwing in humourous literary allusions. Allusions to unwanted intruders who disrupt one's inspired creativity, no less. And now the _insufferable_ Holmes has thwarted this scheme and is, no doubt, as we speak, celebrating with his lapdog of a doctor or his smug, fat, brother, thinking himself so very clever and so very _superior_." 

The Professor spits out the last word with a snarl and an expression of such violence that Moran almost refrains from speaking, yet his irritation at Moriarty's earlier jibes makes him somewhat reckless. And swallowing down the remainder of the wine as Moriarty watches is, he knows, being deliberately provocative, yet he cannot help himself. 

"But you still ain't explained what any of this has to do with _poetry_ , Sir. And, I may not be as clever as you at mathematics and studying the planets and _planning_ things the way you do, but I know my way 'round a revolver. So after you've told me what this Holmes hullabaloo is all about, I've got those gun blueprints ready to explain to you."

On reflection, Moran realises that he probably could not have said anything more guaranteed to provoke Moriarty's reaction. 

"Explain _to me_ , Colonel? _You_ explain to _me_? How dare you, sir? You sit there, drinking yourself insensible, not understanding that the informant, who styles himself _Porlock_ , is our _own man_ and has been communicating confidential information to Holmes under our very noses. Or, should I say, under _your_ nose, Moran, for you are my chief of staff, are you not? Or have you forgotten that, too, in your cups, as you have forgotten how to supervise the men you are supposed to be managing for me?"

"Dear God, when I took you in, reeking of drink and poverty and desperation, more a fleabitten feral cur than a man, I thought that you had it in you to become my right hand, with your superb riflemanship and your flair for getting what needs to be done, done. But now, alas, I see that I was totally mistaken, and that what you are, _Colonel_ , is a bloody good for nothing drunkard whom I should have left wallowing in the gutter where you belong!" 

During Moriarty's diatribe, Moran's face has become tighter and whiter until he is now ashen, rising abruptly and standing shaking beside the table, the decanter and glass lying tipped over, broken, the wine dregs staining the table linen, and cutlery and crockery scattered on the floor. Taking up the broken decanter, Moran steps towards the Professor, raising it as if to strike the other man. "No! I shall not have it, Sir! You shall not speak to me so!"

Just at the point that it appears inevitable that Moran will bring the heavy, jagged glass down on Moriaty's head, he seems to check himself and stop in mid-action, panting and trembling with suppressed passion. Then, without another word, he throws the broken bottle to the floor with a crash and stalks from the room, slamming the door violently behind him.


	2. Chapter 2

Sebastian watches the first thin rays of dawn as they move across the floor and strike the counterpane, before, ever stronger and wider, they begin to edge up the length of his prone body. He has not slept; he is now lying on his back, still dressed, although he has kicked off his boots, his left arm curled under his head, and his right laid across his stomach. He has smoked too many cigarettes to count - out of the window, of course - the Professor cannot abide smoke in the bedrooms and, even given their violent disagreement the previous evening, he cannot bring himself to go against his employer's wishes.

He sighs, deep in thought. He knows, of course, that Moriarty's cruel words were born of his anger and pain at the frustration of such a well-planned and so very nearly successfully executed stratagem, and that no doubt the Professor is this morning feeling as wretched as he. But Sebastian has a resilience that his employer does not quite possess; he can and has been knocked about by life on more occasions than he cares to recall, and always he has arisen, stronger and more cynical - _oh yes, more cynical_ \- for it, but he does rebound. Moriarty, on the other hand, has a certain blackness within him, a deep abyss which Sebastian supposes (he has a working knowledge of Newtonian laws of motion, after all, as well as an appreciation of the wonderful and vast symmetries of the universe) must be the equal and opposite of the soaring brilliance of his genius, a chasm within which which the Professor finds far more difficult to avoid being swallowed up than Moran does to defeat his demons.

And so, with this knowledge weighing heavily upon him, he pulls himself from his bed, cleans his teeth, face and hands in the basin and combs his hair, before pulling on his boots and jacket and wandering quietly down to the kitchens.

~*~

The Professor's bedroom ( _their_ bedroom, he thinks, wryly) hasn't been slept in. Sebastian makes his way to the sitting room-cum-study, deliberating as he goes on whether to knock before entering. He decides against it, and turns the doorknob, stepping into the room quietly. Moriarty is sitting on the sofa in front of the long extinguished fire, the chill air in the room thick with the smell of tobacco smoke. Sebastian eyes the brimming ashtray as he walks over to the hearth and sets about raking out the remains of the dead fire and setting a new one. Before long the room is noticeably warmer and brighter, as the flames lick and leap in the grate.

Sebastian moves to the sofa and sits, kicking off his shoes. He leans back against the end of the seat, arranging the cushions to support himself comfortably, and gently draws Moriarty towards him. The Professor is stiff and unresponsive at first, but with gentle coaxing Sebastian manages to arrange them so that Moriarty is lying against him, his back against Sebastian's chest, and his head on his shoulder. Sebastian gently kneads the stiff muscles of Moriarty's shoulders, rubbing his thumbs up and down the sides of his neck as he does so, all the time murmuring a quiet litany - _James, James, my sweet James_ \- into the glossy auburn hair against his cheek, taking in the faint scent of the Professor's hair oil and his warm, familiar, masculine smell.

He feels Moriarty relax against him, and moves his hands up into his hair, pressing and slowly rotating the heels of his hands against the sides of Moriarty's head whilst massaging his scalp with strong, clever fingers, exerting just enough pressure to smooth away the knots and tangles of tension.

Just then there is a soft tap at the door, and Sebastian gently pushes Moriarty from him, settling him comfortably against the pile of cushions on the sofa. He returns from the door carrying a tray laden with breakfast items - morning rolls, toast, croissants, fresh butter, jam, and a steaming pot of tea. He pours two cups, adding milk to both and a spoon of sugar to his own cup, before breaking off a piece of croissant and spreading a little of the butter on it.

"James. Eat." He proffers the morsel to Moriarty, who eats it from his fingers, his pale eyes not once leaving Sebastian's, licking a stray smear of butter from his lips. They continue in this way until the croissant is eaten, and Sebastian then lifts the tea to Moriarty's lips. He sips, the tea reviving and hot, working its warm magic through him, the very last of the tension that has wracked him with black anger and wretchedness leaching away through Sebastian's gentle ministrations, to be replaced with the comfort of knowing that he is held, warm, cherished and cared for, in the arms of someone who does not badger him with recriminations or ask for apologies he cannot give.

He takes Sebastian's hand and rubs its back against his cheek, before pressing his lips to the palm and kissing it tenderly. Then, leaning back against him on the sofa, his head cradled in the warmth of Sebastian's shoulder, he at last allows his eyes to close.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have no doubt that Sebastian picked up a working knowledge of head massage whilst in India, which he uses to good effect on the Professor.


End file.
